


Like A Fever In The Blood

by thefairfleming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon is brought home injured, and the Lady of Winterfell does her best to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Fever In The Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fauxkaren in the GoT kink meme, Prompt:"Jon/Sansa, hurt/comfort- Sansa is lady of Winterfell and Jon arrives injured. She nurses him back to health and while doing so, ~sexiness~ ensues."

He looks like death when they bring him to Winterfell, but he also looks like a Stark. As Sansa does her best to dress his wounds (no maester here in Winterfell now. No septon or septa, no one save her and the few broken souls trying to make this a home again), her gaze goes again and again to that solemn face, so like her father's. Only when he is cleaned and bandaged and lying in the bed that was once her mother's does Sansa allow her palm to rest against his cheek.

"Jon," she says softly, surprised at the tenderness in her voice. She had thought there was no tenderness left in her. Not after King's Landing. Not after the Vale.

His eyes flutter open for the first time since they carried him through her gates. Hazy with pain and fever and the dreamwine he'd been given, they struggle to focus on her face. "Sansa?" he murmurs, and suddenly her eyes sting with tears. No one has said her name like that in such a long time.

He reaches up, and his fingers tangle in her hair. As weak as he had appeared, his grip is strong, and Sansa finds herself leaning into it. Leaning into him. Staring at her hair in the candlelight, he suddenly looks confused. He says something else then, and Sansa thinks it may be a name, but it is not one she knows.

Gently, she takes his wrist, pulling his hand from her. "It's alright," she says, unsure of what else to say. But perhaps it's the right thing, because his gaze seems to clear.

When he slips back into sleep- or perhaps simply unconsciousness- Sansa studies him for a long while. They say he is a Targaryen now, but it is nowhere in his face. No, she thinks. He does not look like a dragon. He looks like _home._

**  
Days go by, but he does not seem to improve. Yes, there are times when his eyes open and settle on her. Once he even speaks to her. ("It's yours. Winterfell. You claimed it as you should. Yours...Sansa..." The words are slurred and hoarse, but they fill her with so much warmth, she thinks perhaps she is the one who is feverish.)

But those moments of clarity are rare. Mostly, he stays somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, restless and burning. He shivers constantly, and Sansa finally has him moved from Lady Catelyn's former chambers to her own. There, he shivers even worse, but Sansa presses damp, cool cloths to him, ignoring the twisting in her heart every time he moans.She finds herself staying with him night and day, and takes to sleeping in the chair beside his bed. 

Jon has been at Winterfell nearly a fortnight when he takes a turn for the worse. One of his men comes to look in on him, a thin figure dressed in ragged blacks. As he stands over Jon, a dark look passes over his face. "Lord Snow won't last the night, m'lady." She tries not to look as stricken as she feels, but clearly she does not succeed for the man turns surprisingly gentle eyes to her and says, "You did the best you could. Couldn't no maester have done any better."

"He will not die," she hears herself say, her voice as crisp and authorative as the Lady of Winterfell's should be. "Often things seems most dire just before the patient recovers." She thinks she heard Maester Luwin say that once. Or perhaps he said that a patient seems to recover just before he dies. In any case, it does not matter because the man only looks at her with pity, and Sansa feel the sudden childish urge to stamp her feet and insist she can save Jon. She could not save any of the rest, but Jon will not die. He _cannot_ die.

But Sansa is past childish urges now, so she simply ignores the man, and eventually, he withdraws.

She sits by Jon's bedside, one of his hands dangling limply in hers. She would pray, but she does not know who to pray to. The Mother to protect him? The Stranger not to take him? In the end, she crawls into the bed, the heat of his body searing her through her nightclothes. Curling around Jon, Sansa decides to pray to the old gods, the ones her father kept. _He is all that's left to me. Please, not him, too._

She does not mean to sleep, but she must have, because suddenly, Jon is no longer beside her. Instead, he has rolled on top of her, and she gasps at how hot he is. It's as though he has banked coals, flaring with white heat, glowing just under his skin. His eyes are dark and hot, glassy with the fever raging through his body.

Jon's breath comes fast as he stares down at her, and much like that first night, Sansa has the sense he is looking at her, but seeing someone else. Then his knee is nudging her thighs apart, and she is suddenly gasping for a very different reason.

He's hard against her, and she should feel horrified and frightened, as she has every time a man has laid on top of her like this. But this is Jon, and she cannot be afraid of him. His hands come up to tangle in her hair again. "Kissed by fire," he mutters. "Lucky."

She opens her mouth to ask what that means, but then his hips shift against hers and she finds she has no breath left to speak. And when he lowers his mouth to hers, she does not resist. In truth, her lips open easily, her tongue meeting his, and her fingers grip his hair every bit as tightly as he is gripping hers.

_I should stop him,_ some distant part of her says. _He is out of his mind with fever and I...I am simply out of my mind._

She must be. That can be the only reason she is arching into him, opening her legs for him, rubbing herself against him so shamelessly. She wonders briefly where a man of the Night's Watch learned to kiss like this, but there is no envy in the thought, only curiosity. And when his lips move to her throat, gratitude, Whoever taught Jon Snow how to love a woman, she taught him well. His hand slides under her nightdress, the roughness of his bandaged hand contrasting against the gentleness of his touch.

_I bandaged that hand,_ Sansa thinks, remembering twining the cloth around his palm. But then his hand is between her legs, and Sansa has no more thoughts at all.

She pants and twists against him, his fingers impossibly hot as they part her folds, stroking a part of her she did not even know was there. He ducks his head, his lips closing around her nipple, and Sansa cries out, both at the heat of his mouth and the sensations he wrenches from her body.

Fire and blood are the Targaryen words, and perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he is part dragon after all, for surely he has lit a fire in her blood. Or maybe it is just his fever, seeping into her skin, burning her from the inside out.

He lifts his head to look at her as his fingers move faster, harder, until she is clutching at his shoulders and making sounds she is sure no lady should make. His eyes still do not see her. They are unfocused, dark, yet fever-bright. Does he know it's her beneath him, or, in his mind, is it someone else? Sansa knows she should care, but then she is breaking apart, shuddering and pressing her open mouth against the scorching skin over his collarbone.

Tremors are still wracking her body when she feels the back of his hand brush against her senstitive flesh. He is undoing his laces, and again, she thinks, Stop this. Before it's irrevocable. But if she is honest, this was always irrevocable, maybe from the moment she climbed into bed with him. Perhaps even from that first night, as she cleaned his wounds and tried not to notice the curve and shape of muscle and bone under skin. How familiar his face looked.

So when he slides inside her, she she curls a leg around his hips, thrusting up to meet him. "Jon," she whispers against his chest. "Oh, Jon."

He holds her tightly, pulling her with him as he rolls onto his back. It takes her a moment to find his rhythm again, but his hands are there on her hips, guiding her, and soon they are rising and falling easily together. As Sansa tilts her head back, she imagines that he is branding her. That she will go through the rest of her life with the mark of Jon's hands on her hips, her back, her breasts. It's a fanciful thought, the kind she thought she could no longer have, and when Jon sits up to cradle her in his lap, she wraps her arms around him, wanting to press every inch of his burning flesh into hers.

She kisses him as he fists a hand in her hair, tight enough to hurt.

They move together, faster now, and it's as though everything within her is coiling tighter and tighter. She had thought she'd exhausted all the pleasure her body could feel, but now, as Jon's hips surge against hers and he gives a hoarse cry, she realizes that what came before had been nothing compared to this. She throws back her head, too breathless to cry out, as her fingers dig into his shoulders and her toes curl. Jon shakes in her arms, and she tastes salt as tears slip beneath her closed eyelids.

When she lowers her forhead to his, he feels damp, and for a moment, she thinks he's crying, too. But it's not tears dripping from Jon's skin. It's sweat. He is bathed in it, slick and shining in the firelight. And while he is still so warm against her, he is no longer an ember in her arms.

Jon eases back into the bed, taking her with him. Once again, she against his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck. She strokes his hair and it's soaked, curling against her fingers. _I saved you,_ she thinks dreamily. _Like in a song._

She wakes sometime much later, when the fire has burned down to little more than coals. Jon is still lying beside her, but when she opens her eyes, she finds him propped on one arm, gazing down at her. For a moment, she freezes, sure that he will be horrified by what they've done. Or perhaps he is still locked in the delusion of his illness, and he'll call her that other name. She is not sure which would be worse.

But he does neither. Instead, he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, and whispers, "Sansa."


End file.
